Atlantisite
by Ayveena
Summary: There was Tenenbaum, but I knew I was just a means to an end. Relieving her of her guilt, her sick feelings that kept her up at night like a thousand needles in her brain. She didn't care about me. He certainly didn't. (Mild Jatlas, M for graphic violence) (Sequel to Forget Me Nots & Daisies)


Betrayal. Utter, awful betrayal and the knife just kept twisting in my gut.

"_There ain't no Atlas, kid. Never was_."

How could I have been so blind? How could I have believed for a second that someone, anyone in this hellhole gave a shit about me? There was Tenenbaum, but I knew I was just a means to an end for her. Relieving her of her guilt, her sick feelings that kept her up at night like a thousand needles in her brain. She didn't care about me, not for one second.

He certainly didn't. Just lik everyone else.

A splicer screamed out one last shrill noise before my wrench cracked her skull in two. It should have disturbed me somehow, that I just didn't care anymore, but the numbness had long since eaten even that away. My first splicer had been a bloody affair, Atlas screaming into the radio, something about lightning, but I was so scared I clutched the wrench until it bruised my hand before bludgeoning the splicer's chest. Now it was just routine, muscle memory. Atlas praising me the whole way, honeyed words for foul acts. Always asking kindly.

Atlas? No. _Fontaine. Frank Fontaine._

It was with disturbing frequency I needed to remind myself of that, even with the man's chuckles and drawls echoing around my empty head. His acid burning through my veins, wrapping his hands around my heart and squeezing until it burst. Code Yellow didn't even bring so much hurt.

He knew, he knew how much I ached even with my face never changing and my voice all dried up. His, in contrast, voice just got more and more amused as I spiralled further into dull apathy.

"Boyo?"

My throat constricted, all my breath escaping. Even through the buzz of my radio, it was him, it was-

_No,_ I chastised myself, _don't. Just don't._

"What do you want, Fontaine?"

I shrunk down in a corner, pulling a set of bandages. Might as well wait out this conversation and heal myself up while I'm at it.

"Fontaine? Jack, Jackie, I ain't Fontaine."

"You aren't fooling anyone," I wrapped the bandages tight around my wounds, dripping a bit of alcohol on them. I ignored his pet name entirely.

"Fontaine 'ad me all tied up, boyo," his tone was laced with some measure of fear, something genuine that I rolled my eyes at, "believe me, I wouldn't do this to ya."

"You're foul."

"So you finally got out of that trap, Atlas? Thought a splicer'd get to you before you struggled your way outta there."

I almost dropped my bandages, managing to catch them before they spilled out on the mildewy floor.

Two different frequencies? Two different radios? I had overheard Fontaine only because Atlas still had his on, the static doubled. But his accent, the sleaze and drawl of it was so clear. They weren't the same. Couldn't be faked, not like that. Could it?

"Fontaine, you-"

"Leave it, boyo."

Fontaine's chuckle echoed clear in my ears.

My thoughts stuttered. Atlas was real. It couldn't be fake. Couldn't be.

I swallowed down my shock.

"Atlas?"

"Jack?"

"You're- you're here, I-I-" A tear spilled unbidden down my cheeks, my throat constricting, "I thought you were-"

_Could still be. _

"Fontaine? Jackie, I understand. Isn't the first time someone's tried bein' me."

I opened my mouth to continue but he cut me off, "Blocked Fontaine's transmissions for now, I think. Listen, I'll find my way to you, we can take 'im down together. Hit 'em hard. Where are you, boyo?"

I winced, glancing around, "Can't you tell from the cameras? Fontaine might listen."

Atlas gave a short exhale, "Old Frank's got his eyes and ears everywhere. Hijacked my cameras. All I've got is this here radio."

I hesitated, "Apollo Square. I'll stand outside, you'll spot me then."

"I'm 'round there. I'll be glad to shake your hand."

I perked up at that, but kept a steady hand on my wrench even with my renewed trust. Couldn't risk anything. Fontaine was never deterred for long. I jogged down the stairs, Electro Bolt shuddering through my veins.

The air was wet and cold, and I shivered under my torn sweater. It was as good as rags now, probably warmer as tinder than clothing. Atlas had offered me me new clothes before, but I always refused. I regretted that now.

Silence wrapped around me, not even a splicer's gibbering breaking it. It washed over me, equal parts refreshing and terrifying. Too empty. Too cold. Too safe.

"It's good t'see you again."

I spun around and shot lightning at the voice, a dark haired man sidestepping the bolt with surprising grace, hands up in surrender.

I lowered my hand, "Atlas?"

He beamed, cornflower blue eyes twinkling, "None other, boyo."

Tousled black hair, clothing caked in dirt but he still shone through, smile bright. A man of the people, handsome as a picture. The same as he had been, that time we'd met in the apartment. (Frank Fontaine's apartment, he reminded himself.) Perfect features, so very Atlas. As perfect as when I had met him, not far from here.

Too perfect. I clutched at my wrench harder, holding it out in front of me with trembling arms, "How can I know it's you? Fontaine's some great pretender."

"Don't trust me? I understand, I understand," he took the pistol slowly out of his belt, throwing it down in the dirt, "I'm unarmed. Do as you will."

My heart pounded, the room feeling far too enclosed all of a sudden.

Couldn't tell him I trusted him, I couldn't say-

"I trust you," I lowered my wrench, still feeling lightheaded. My brain cycled through several fearful thoughts before stilling. The feeling soon cleared.

He took a tentative step towards me, and I resisted the urge to both back away and get closer, caught between two fears like a butterfly in a web. I simply stood, trying to keep myself calm as my heart raced and some small part of my mind screamed for me to run, to do anything. Was he Atlas? Fontaine? _Both_?

Another step. I trembled, taking a shuffling half step back.

Step.

He was close, too close, not close enough, only a few paces away from me now, his blue eyes the colour of ice but still so warm.

"Jackie, calm."

Couldn't be calm. Couldn't. Rapture was hell, it was fear and it had swallowed me whole.

He stepped again.

Too close. My hand trembled around a plasmid, veins glowing blue and icy. Atlas said nothing, but took the last step until we stood close and parallel, his arms opening wide as he folded me into them.

I leaned against his chest- he was taller than me, only an inch or so, but he rested his chin against the top of my head all the same and I let out something I could only describe as a choked sob.

It was Atlas. (Fontaine, my brain tried to correct, but I ignored it.)

We parted after a time I was sure wasn't enough, Atlas staring down at me with a warm smile that made my heart ache.

"I never did tell you how beautiful you are, Jack."

My eyes widened as he cupped my face in one hand and leaned in.

He tasted like something warm and sweet, and I let out a giddy sound. This couldn't be real.

His free fingers intertwined with mine, and I didn't notice the missing weight in my hand until it was too late.

The wrench cracked hard against my skull, the sneer all Fontaine as I crumpled into his arms.

* * *

Metal. Sharp and digging into my back.

"You're a fucking moron, kid."

Cigarette smoke curled lazily around me as I tried to bolt upright, ties digging into my wrists and ankles.

An iron bed frame. I was spread across it, tied up so that even the slightest movement of my limbs ached. I lifted my head to look at Atlas- Fontaine, Fontaine, always had been.

"What did I tell ya?" Fontaine took a drag on his cigarette, his smile far too toothy to be friendly, "_Never_ mix business with friendship."

"How?" I didn't intend to sound so desperate, but my voice came out pleading, "_Why_?"

"I got you deep. Your brain's still wired to trust me even with the fancy cure."

He gave a chuckle, standing up and making his way across the room towards me.

"Why d'you think I took you to my apartment? I needed you to trust me, _Jack_," he stopped beside the frame, staring down at me with icy blue eyes, "More than anyone else."

"You're a monster," my voice was hollow, barely above a whisper.

"Maybe, kid," he took one last drag, tapping the ashes idly into my face, the stinging thankfully not reaching my eyes, "but at least I know when to give up hope."

Fontaine pushed the cigarette butt into my exposed shoulder, and I howled as it burned, twisting to try and get away and only tightening the knots.

Nausea overcame me, my eyes misting over as I dry heaved.

Fontaine's sick smile only grew.

"Oh, you ain't seen _nothin'_ yet, kid."

He pulled out a box from under the bed frame, sliding the lid off with practised ease.

Knives. Varying lengths, varying styles, but knives nevertheless.

I tried to call up any of my plasmids, desperate, but all that came out of my hand were sparks and embers.

"Tryin' to hurt me? That's cute, kid. You couldn't do it."

He selected one, a long, straight knife that slid past my sweater and across my sternum. Blood welled in its wake as it traced my ribs, stinging in a way that made me hiss.

It reminded me of paper cuts, but at any point the knife could dig in and rend me apart.

"You haven't got the _guts_."

The knife dipped, sliding further down and into my hip until the pain turned white-hot as it was slid into the flesh of my leg, into bone. I let out a choked noise, half scream and half sob, as Fontaine dragged it further up, carving into my hip. I didn't dare move, didn't dare struggle as that would send the blade deep into my stomach. He missed arteries, not allowing any chance for a somewhat quick death. The Vita Chambers would be a sweet reprieve from this.

I wanted to wake up and have this all go away, but the face that some sick part of me still wanted to trust wouldn't go away. He wouldn't vanish, or make a mistake. He was purely Frank Fontaine, and I was a lovesick fool.

"Haven't done this in a while," Fontaine didn't expect me to answer, talking to himself more than anything as the knife slid across my stomach. I trembled and threw my head back so I didn't have to see him carving into me like Steinman with his 'patients'. I bit my lip almost hard enough to draw blood before gasping.

"S-stop..."

The knife ceased its movement, now embedded shallowly in my left hip, "What was that, _kid_? Speak up."

"Please..." Even my intact skin felt like it was on fire as my body steadily leaked hot blood and betrayal, "Please stop..."

"You want all this to stop, already?" Fontaine chuckled, the sound so ugly coming from that face. I tilted my head back down, giving a weak nod. He ruffled my hair, almost friendly if it weren't for the rough way he tugged, "A shame."

My mouth opened and closed, my mind blank apart from white noise and pain.

I couldn't answer. My mouth felt dry and my tongue was heavy.

"I guess I'll oblige you," he reached to his belt, loading the round into his pistol with practised ease, "you've been a sport."

_So I guess I owe you a little honesty. _

Cold gunmetal pressed against my ear, those cornflower blue eyes filled with violent fire.

_Name's Frank Fontaine. _

He pulled the trigger.

* * *

I woke up screaming in the Vita Chamber, and all I could hear was his laugh.


End file.
